By Adrian Hobbs
It was small at first, the mark he left. Awake, I felt along my flank
and noticed, for the first time, a hole,
cylindrical and exact,
bored through me like a flawless bullet. It did not take much light
to see the redness on my hand,
the loss that left me spinning.
The next day I held my side and shied away from speech.
It was weeks before I saw him,
splayed across my sternum
like the whole of me was his;
thin and squirming, black, half-curled,
like a question mark,
By then I was wreathed with holes, and couldn’t stand for the skin I lacked.
I was mute for his stinging ribbons,
the crimson tramlines he trailed down each arm. Mute as his fingers rippled,
and pricked below my skin.
I lay silent, I recall,
paralytic as a doll
when he crawled inside my mouth and made a patchwork of my tongue.
Now he cradles in my ear,
and rocks me nauseous into sleep. He explores me like a lover,
kisses bright as a lover’s stain.
And I am made a fountain.
Yet in the space between stillness I clutch at this: That in the moment of death, lost wings may grow and unfold in metamorphosis.
By Lewis Hunt
Hurrying a marbled length
Of paradise floor.
Curls with amber growth
Where the Lorikeet flung it.
Is there a gap there, in the root?—
Drafting the vapour in flaps: